


Impotent in the Face of Hope and Joy

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Journalism, Journalist!Grantaire, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Reconciliation, Senator!Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is a down-and-out journalist who decides to start publishing anonymously online using the pseudonym "R", but can't bring himself to write about a certain blond-haired, blue-eyed Senator with whom he has a past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impotent in the Face of Hope and Joy

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a P.J. O’Rourke quote: “Ideology, politics and journalism, which luxuriate in failure, are impotent in the face of hope and joy.”
> 
> Usual disclaimer: I don't own them, and I probably never will (but if I did have the rights to them, I would totally let you all use them, so there's that). All spelling/grammar mistakes are my own.

“This is the last straw, Grantaire.” Claquesous’s voice was firm as he set the empty whiskey bottle on the desk in front of where Grantaire sat, fixing him with a pointed glare before crossing to the other side of the desk and sitting down. “This is your fourth time getting caught drinking at work, and this time, you passed out at your desk.”

Grantaire glared up at him sullenly from red-rimmed eyes. Claquesous had woken him up early that morning, and yes, he may have been drinking and fallen asleep at his desk, but it was one time, and besides… “I still got my story in on time,” he said, stubbornly, his voice only slurring a little bit.

Claquesous frowned even deeper. “Yeah, about that—” He slid the mock-up of the next day’s newspaper across the desk to him. “‘Corruption Uncovered at Patron-Minette’? As the front page headline? Patron-Minette is our parent company. We can’t publish this.”

“Why not?” Grantaire challenged, sitting up a little straighter. “It’s the truth, properly documented. If we don’t publish it, someone else will get the scoop, and worse, we’ll be accused of bias.”

Waving a dismissive hand, Claquesous leaned forward. “In this business, there is no such thing as an article published without bias. Especially with the newspaper industry going the way it is. It’s dying out, kid, and we need journos willing to do what it takes to keep us up and running.” He tapped the mock-up. “This is doing the opposite of that.”

Grantaire saw the look on Claquesous’s face and swallowed, his tone turning wheedling. “C’mon. You know me. I’ve won a fucking Pulitzer for this newspaper. I’m the best damn journalist you have here.”

To his credit, Claquesous did look a little guilty, but he just shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry. The decision is out of my hands.”

“You’re my editor! Who the hell else’s hands would it be in if not yours?”

“That would be mine.” Grantaire swiveled around in his chair to see the tall figure of M. Thenardier, CEO of Patron-Minette, in the doorway, perfectly immaculate from his three-piece suit to his greasy hair. “Your piece has caused quite a stir, Mr. Grantaire. But I’m afraid I can’t allow it to be published. It would, ah, reflect badly, shall we say, on Patron-Minette, and I could lose an awful lot of money.”

His tone was mild but the threat was clear. Grantaire couldn’t help but glare up at him. “And yet all the facts in my story are entirely accurate. Or do you deny the allegations laid forth in the article?”

Thenardier swaggered into the room as if he owned it (which, technically, he did). “On the record, I absolutely deny any allegations made about the integrity of our company, and would direct anyone curious to the highly satisfactory reports filed by the IRS and FBI showing all of our business dealings have been legitimate and above-board.”

“Only because you paid them off,” snapped Grantaire, not even trying to reign in his temper. He turned back to Claquesous. “This is the biggest story this year, and you’re not going to let me run it? Seriously?”

Claquesous shrugged unhappily, and Thenardier smiled. “Mr. Grantaire, not only is your story not going to be run, but your position here has been terminated. Per your contract, of course, you have a non-compete clause that excludes you from working at any major news publication for the next year, and any stories you wrote, including sources, are the property of Patron-Minette. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am a very busy man. I’ll expect your desk to be cleaned out by the end of the day.”

When Grantaire glared at Claquesous, he was met with a murmured, “My hands are tied.”

So he stood, straight-backed and proud, about to give Thenardier a piece of his mind.

Instead, he threw up on his shoes.

Well, it was a form of protest in and of itself, he mused as he was firmly escorted from the building, his possessions thrown haphazardly into a paper box. He stood on the curb for a moment, blinking blearily around at the city, at the commuters who were just now getting to work when he was just now leaving.

Then he grinned, almost wildly, and hailed a cab, giving the address of an apartment in Brooklyn and then asking, “Do you know of any 24-hour liquor stores on the way? I’ve got something to pick up.”

And so Grantaire spent the next twelve hours trying to drink himself to death at his best friend Jehan’s apartment, and when that failed, spent the four hours after that puking up everything in his stomach. As he lay in the fetal position on the bathroom floor, Jehan stood in the doorway and clucked his tongue unsympathetically. “Are you done feeling sorry for yourself yet?”

“Fuck you,” Grantaire groaned, extricating an arm from underneath himself to give Jehan the finger.

Jehan didn’t even blink. “Come on,” he said briskly. “So you got fired. It’s not the end of the world. You’re an excellent journalist when you want to be. And I’m sure you’ll be hired by someone else in no time.”

Grantaire tentatively heaved himself into a sitting position, trying to ignore the way the room spun. “I’ve got two words for you: non-compete clause.” Jehan winced sympathetically and Grantaire dropped his head into his hands. “You should have seen the article I was gonna publish, Jehan. It was glorious. A perfectly sourced indictment of everything wrong in major business today. Fuck, it probably would’ve gotten me another Pulitzer. But no, of course, the corrupt powers that be had to step the fuck in and now no one’s going to read it.”

There was a long moment of silence as Jehan looked torn between continuing to look sympathetic and a slight smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You do realize who you sound like?”

“Fuck you.” This time the words were softer, spoken more out of instinct than anything. “I don’t sound anything like him.”

Something flickered on Jehan’s face and he sighed. “C’mon Grantaire. Is it really worth holding onto all that anger even now? He’d be really proud of what you’ve done.”

Grantaire looked away. “I got fired and then I puked on my ex-boss’s several-thousand-dollar shoes. If anything, what I’ve done is proven him exactly right - I am a useless drunk who doesn’t believe in anything.”

“You believe in your story.” Jehan’s voice was soft as well, but firm. “And if you really want to get your story out there, I may have a solution for you.”

Frowning, Grantaire looked up at him. “A way that doesn’t violate the non-compete clause? Do tell.”

Jehan grinned fiercely. “Publish it on my blog.”

“A blog?” Grantaire groaned. “C’mon Jehan, I’ve won a Pulitzer. You don’t think that’s a _little_ insulting?”

Glaring at him, Jehan asked coldly, “I’m sorry, would you care to rephrase that statement to the person who happens to run a successful blog and who also happened to let you vomit in his toilet for the last four hours?”

Grantaire quaked slightly under Jehan’s glare and said meekly, “I mean, there’s nothing _wrong_ with being a blogger, I just…uh…the level of…um…the _kind_ of journalism I write isn’t very conducive to the bloggersphere?”

Jehan pursed his lips slightly as he considered it. “Better,” he allowed, and Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief. “But you’re still going to publish your story. If it’s as important as you say, use this as an opportunity to get it out there.”

Biting his lip, Grantaire said slowly, “I’ll have to publish it anonymously…”

Jehan grinned. “Back to our good ol’ uni days when you would send letters to the editor in to the newspaper, all signed with your mysterious nomenclature, ‘R’? And had Enjolras railing in every meeting because half of your letters were stinging indictments of some of his own arguments?”

At the mention of Enjolras’s name, which had previously been avoided, Grantaire’s face tightened, but he managed a weak chuckle. “Yes, those were the days,” he said lightly. “When we were all so young and idealistic. When Enjolras would ask me to stay behind after meetings so he could bend me over a table and—”

"Don’t need to know!" Jehan practically yelped as Grantaire chuckled darkly. "Anyway, publishing things anonymously worked for you back then, so who’s to say it won’t work for you now?"

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I honestly don’t give a shit what Enjolras thinks of me anymore.”

"I meant that publishing things anonymously got your stuff read and talked about," Jehan said, raising one eyebrow. He started to leave then stopped, turning back to Grantaire, his lips quirked into a smirk. "But I won’t forget how quickly your mind jumped to Enjolras."

* * *

 

Six hours later, Grantaire was in the middle of what he considered a well-deserved rest, the booze and just plain exhaustion having caught up to him. He had published his stupid article on Jehan’s blog as best as he could considering he was going solely off of memory, and Jehan had been gracious enough to offer him his bed, since he was practically nocturnal at this point anyway.

But instead of enjoying his blissful sleep, Grantaire was rather rudely awoken by Jehan pounding on his door. “Grantaire, wake up!” he practically shouted, bouncing into the room to physically shake Grantaire.

"I’m awake, Prouvaire, the fuck?" Grantaire said groggily, sitting up.

Jehan sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s your article. It’s gone viral. Over 100,000 hits in the first half hour. New York Times, Washington Post, Wall Street Journal have all tweeted links to it. The site’s crashed.”

"Shit, Jehan, I didn’t mean to crash the site," Grantaire said panickedly.

Laughing, Jehan threw his arms around Grantaire to give him a jovial hug. “Taire, that’s a _good_ thing. Do you know how many people want to read it? At this rate there’s not going to be a single person who _hasn’t_ read it!”

Grantaire frowned slightly. “Won’t they know that it’s me who wrote it? I was the one with the story…”

“They might,” Jehan said offhandedly, still looking positively delighted. “But they have no means of tracing it. If anything, they’ll trace it back to me, but I’m pretty much covered - I’ve had lawyers look at every aspect of the site to ensure that - so any accusations against you would be slander at best. Besides, I’m less concerned about what they’re going to do to you and far more concerned about what you’re going to do to _them_.”

Looking at him blankly, Grantaire asked, “What do you mean, what I’m going to do to them?”

Jehan’s grin turned wicked. “Don’t you see? You could do this for a living. You could do everything that your editor would never allow you to do, all under the guise of anonymity. Every story you’ve ever wanted to publish, every corrupt politician you’ve wanted to take down…you could do it.”

Grantaire looked into the fierce look on Jehan’s face, full of the same kind of fervor that used to possess their group of friends back in the day, “I don’t know,” Grantaire said reluctantly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything like that. And besides, I was never the one who wanted to change the world. That was all Enjolras.”

“That was all of us,” Jehan said quietly. “Whether or not you wanted to change the world, you tried right along with us. Yes, half the time you just wrote and said the shit that you did to piss Enjolras off, but you also know that it helped us. Helped Enjolras. Helped make his arguments better. Helped set him on the course that he’s on now, where he actually is changing the world.”

Looking away, Grantaire asked quietly, “Are you still in touch with them all?”

Jehan nodded. “Courfeyrac, mostly.” At Grantaire’s surprised look, he said wryly, “Not all of us broke off complete contact with our ex when we broke up. We actually are civil with each other.”

“You and Courfeyrac also didn’t exactly end like Enjolras and I,” Grantaire reminded him.

“Courfeyrac and I also never had what you and Enjolras had.” Jehan’s voice was soft, but honesty rang in every syllable and Grantaire flushed slightly.

Clearing his throat, Grantaire changed the subject quickly. “Say that I agreed to this, to writing for your blog. Should we discuss payment and benefits?”

Jehan snorted. “Benefits? Is that what you’ve become after selling out and working for the man? You want to know how much you can stash in your 401k? Or what health insurance plan you’re going to be on?”

“Fuck you,” Grantaire laughed. “It’s a valid fucking question.”

Laughing as well, Jehan told him, “Well, you won’t make as much money as you did working for the newspaper, I can guarantee you that. You’ll get a cut of the site’s revenue, of course, and any profits you make from selling your stories to major news outlets will be solely yours.”

Grantaire frowned. “I don’t care about the money,” he admitted. “I’ve got plenty of it stored up from before. I just wanted to make sure that this wouldn’t bankrupt you or anything.”

“You’re not the only one with money socked away,” Jehan told him, smiling grimly. “I’ve done very well for myself, made a few key investments, stored some money in some very convenient places away from prying government eyes, so even if this somehow flops - which it definitely won’t - I will still be taken care of. And you, well, you’ll just be right back here.”

Grantaire laughed. “Reassuring as always, Prouvaire.” He paused for just a moment. “Alright then. I’m in.”

* * *

 

Over the next several months, some of the most hard-hitting investigative reports in all the major news organizations originated from postings on a website from a person who only went by the name “R”. Whoever this R was, he refused to meet with the press, refused to do any interviews, refused to publish anything under his own name (or her - there was some speculation that the notorious R could be a female trying to break into a typically male-dominated realm). The New York Times called him “Wikileaks turned into honest journalism” and the Washington Post said he was “Woodward and Bernstein meets Anonymous meets Politico”. TIME magazine did an entire piece on R and the changing face of journalism in the digital age.

And all the while Grantaire mostly lounged on Jehan’s couch and ate terrible junk food and drank cheap whiskey, occasionally venturing out to meet with sources.

Whenever any of the news outlets published something of his or hailed his investigative techniques, Jehan would casually mention, “You know, for someone who doesn’t want to change the world, you’re doing an awfully good job of it.”

Grantaire would just grumble and give him the finger, but the look on his face was always closed, as if he didn’t want to think about Jehan’s exact point.

Until one day, Jehan sat down across from him, sliding the morning’s edition of the Wall Street Journal across the coffee table to him. “We need to talk,” he said seriously.

Blinking first at Jehan then at the headline - one of his, a scathing piece on one of Wall Street’s prominent businessmen, Montparnasse - Grantaire sighed. “Yes, I know, I’m busy changing the world or some shit.”

“It’s not that, Grantaire.” Jehan sounded far more serious than normal and Grantaire frowned but gestured for him to continue. “It’s the editorial they ran about you. These people aren’t stupid, and they’ve started to realize something.”

“And what would that something be?” Grantaire asked.

Jehan leaned forward. “They’ve realized that you haven’t written a single thing about the only independent Senator in the United States Senate. They’ve realized you haven’t said a word about the Political Action Committee Les Amis de l’ABC. They’re going to start calling you out as biased, or worse, as working for them.”

Grantaire had gone very still. “I don’t work for them,” he said quietly.

“I know that.” Jehan’s voice was also soft. “But they don’t. And you’ve done some really incredible things, Taire, and I don’t want you to lose credibility because of this.”

Frowning, Grantaire asked, “For all they know, I’m a mysterious letter of the alphabet. Meaning that this isn’t about my credibility. So what the hell is it about, Jehan?”

Jehan looked down at his hands and let out a frustrated huff of breath. “Despite what you may think, this _is_ about your credibility. Your non-compete clause doesn’t expire for another six months, meaning this is all you’ve got right now. And if that goes downhill…” He bit his lip and met Grantaire’s eye squarely. “All this started with your head in my toilet from you trying to drink yourself to death. And I hate to say it, but that wasn’t the worst situation I’ve found you in. I remember what happened when you and Enjolras—”

“This isn’t about Enjolras!” Grantaire interrupted hotly.

Jehan pursed his lips and continued. “I remember what happened. And I know it wasn’t because of him. I know there was a lot going on in your life then. But I also can’t get the image of how I found you out of my head. You were almost dead, Taire, and without this in your life, without _something_ in your life, I’m worried you’ll head the same way.”

Grantaire looked away, and asked quietly, “What do you want me to do, Jehan? I can’t write about Enjolras. I have nothing to say about Enjolras.”

“Well you’re going to have to find something,” Jehan told him, suddenly brisk. “Because otherwise…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

And Grantaire dropped his head into his hands and groaned out loud. He was royally fucked.

* * *

 

It didn’t take any time for Grantaire to find Enjolras’s next speaking engagement; he was an immensely popular Senator, even if his views were occasionally considered almost wildly radical. Of course, Grantaire chalked some of Enjolras’s success up to his incredibly handsome looks (the kind of looks that had only gotten better with age, damn him), but he also knew that Enjolras had a way of connecting with his audience, of moving people, even if they didn’t necessarily agree with all of his views.

Still, the unfortunate part of being an immensely popular Senator was that his speaking engagement was sold out, and while Grantaire would normally have flashed his press pass to get inside, he didn’t have that option. Meaning that when he did get into the auditorium, it was with him twenty bucks poorer and the doorman twenty dollars richer. He slipped into the back and leaned against the wall, watching Enjolras with hooded eyes.

God, it was good to see him.

His breath caught in his throat as he watched Enjolras gesturing while talking, his gestures as familiar as they ever were. He really hadn’t changed. Had grown older, sure, just as Grantaire had, but his eyes were still alight with what Grantaire had always jokingly called revolutionary fervor. He spoke easily, comfortable up on stage just as he always had been.

Of course, he had exchanged his ratty red hoodie for a crisp blue suit, and his hair was even more perfectly coiffed now than ever, even if it had streaks of silver in its gold, but if Grantaire closed his eyes, he could imagine that they were back at university, that he was sitting at the back of the Musain, half pretending to pursue an art degree as he doodled Enjolras on a napkin (before he had realized - before Enjolras had helped him _see_ \- that journalism was his real calling).

They weren’t. And Grantaire knew that. But it didn’t change the fact that his heart felt lighter than it had in years.

He had only meant to stay a few minutes, just long enough to confirm what he remembered and try and come up with something to write, but when he saw Enjolras, he knew there was no way he was walking away now.

And then at some point during one of his rants about capitalism - a familiar rant; Grantaire could almost remember every single one of those words mouthed against his spine as Enjolras recited his latest speech as they lay in bed together - Enjolras’s eyes met his, and for a moment, Grantaire felt frozen in that steely blue gaze.

Enjolras only missed the hint of a beat before continuing, but it was enough to nearly make Grantaire’s heart stop. And was definitely enough to keep him glued to his spot for the rest of Enjolras’s speech and all of the question and answer session. And just when he was beginning to think he had imagined that their eyes had ever met, Enjolras looked directly at him and jerked his chin, gesturing for Grantaire to join him backstage.

Grantaire hardly needed a second invitation, scrambling to the front of the auditorium and following Enjolras backstage, trying to control his pounding heart, trying not to notice the way that Enjolras’s shoulders seemed stiff, the way he didn’t look at him twice before leading him away.

Enjolras found an empty room and held the door open, gesturing wordlessly for Grantaire to go inside. Then, after a long moment, Enjolras followed him inside, closing the door firmly behind him. “What are you doing here, Grantaire?” he asked quietly.

“Coming to see you speak, of course, Apollo,” Grantaire replied, slipping easily back into their usual repartee from their university days.

Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Enjolras cracked a genuine grin. “You haven’t changed in the slightest, have you?”

Grantaire grinned as well. “I think I’ve changed plenty,” he told Enjolras, folding his arms in front of his chest. “If anyone hasn’t changed, it’s you.”

Enjolras waved a dismissive hand. “The difference is that I haven’t tried to change. You did change, and then changed back.”

“I really have no idea what you’re talking about,” Grantaire said, raising an eyebrow at Enjolras.

Reaching around behind Grantaire - Grantaire tried to ignore their proximity and the way his heart sped up - Enjolras pulled out a copy of the day’s newspaper, and brandished it with a raised eyebrow of his own. “Oh really? Which one of us has resorted to using the same anonymous nomenclature he used during our university years, _R_?”

Grantaire’s laugh died in his throat, and he paled. “You knew it was me all along?”

“Of course,” Enjolras snorted. “From the very first letter to the editor you published during our sophomore year when you called me…what was it? ‘A pompous, hyper-idealistic naive fool whose sole redeeming quality is his fine ass’, if memory serves.”

“To be fair,” Grantaire said, grinning again, “it _was_ a fine ass. And while it’s hard to tell in the suit, I’d be my reputation that it still is.” He bit his lip, looking concerned. “So you knew that entire time? When we were dating?”

Enjolras frowned and said quietly, “Of course I knew. Why do you think I pushed you so hard? I knew what you were capable of, even if you refused to see it.”

Grantaire started to speak, then stopped, dropping his eyes from Enjolras’s. “I’m here to write some kind of story about you,” he said abruptly. “Jehan thinks that the major news outlets are going to start thinking that I’m a member of Les Amis, that I somehow work for you if I don’t write anything.”

Frowning even deeper, Enjolras asked quietly, “And I assume you don’t want anyone to somehow incorrectly think that you’d ever be involved in something like Les Amis, or the work that I’ve been doing for the past ten years?”

Grantaire frowned as well. “It’s not that easy,” he said, his voice as quiet as Enjolras’s, but heated. “I’m a journalist. It’s my job to report the truth. For better or for worse, and all personal feelings aside. Meaning I _will_ have to write something about you. And it’d be far better for me if it wasn’t favorable.”

“What are you looking for, Grantaire? My permission?” Enjolras’s voice was tired, so tired, far more tired than Grantaire had ever heard it during their time together at university.

“That depends,” Grantaire responded, keeping his voice light.

Enjolras snorted. “On what?”

Grantaire’s eyes met Enjolras’s squarely. “On whether you permit it.”

Enjolras stared at him for a long moment, then laughed softly. “You really haven’t changed, Grantaire. And despite what you may think, that’s not a bad thing. You’re still willing to yank my chain.” He started to leave, then paused, looking back at Grantaire with a strange look on his face. “Just know that the Grantaire that I remember wouldn’t write anything that went against his conscience, no matter what anyone else thought. Including me.”

Then he was gone, leaving Grantaire staring at the door for a long time, a small smile hovering on his lips. He knew _exactly_ what he was going to write.

* * *

 

Grantaire was woken at what he considered an absurdly early hour by Jehan pounding rapidly on the door. “Fuck’s sake Prouvaire,” Grantaire groaned, rolling over in bed. “Someone better be dying.”

“Something did die,” Jehan snapped as he opened the door. “It’s called your career.”

He tossed the paper on to Grantaire’s bed, opened to the editorial page, to the huge opinion piece, titled in obscenely large letters, “I am One of Them”. Grantaire couldn’t help but smile slightly at his words, typed quickly in the late hours of the night and sent to an editor he knew would be able to slip them in despite being past the deadline. “What’s this?” he asked innocently.

“You know exactly what that is,” Jehan growled, glowering at Grantaire. “It’s written by the infamous R, declaring himself to be one of Les Amis and espousing their virtues, using that as the reasoning for why he hasn’t written about them.” When Grantaire did nothing more than grin at him, he sighed and added, “I also got a text message this morning. From Enjolras, who apparently doesn’t have your most recent number, but would like you to meet him in the park. He said you’d know where that meant.”

Grantaire’s grin widened. “I do know exactly what he means.”

“And I’m assuming Enjolras is the reason you wrote what you did?” Jehan sighed. Grantaire still just grinned and Jehan said reluctantly, “I’d be really pissed at you if it isn’t for the fact that that’s one of the most romantic things I’ve ever seen.”

Grantaire beamed at Jehan and hopped out of bed, more awake than he had felt in months. “What can I say, Jehan? Sometimes it’s just time for a man to take a stand for what he believes in.”

Jehan smiled at him as well, though there was something guarded on his face. “And you believe in Les Amis?”

“I believe in exactly what I’ve always believed in,” Grantaire said honestly. “And that’s never changed."

* * *

 

A half hour later, Grantaire sat at the park bench in the park just a few blocks from their university, the same park he had spent countless hours in with Enjolras, the same park where he and Enjolras had shared their first kiss. Not even two minutes after he sat down, he saw Enjolras striding towards him, draining his Starbucks coffee. “Starbucks?” Grantaire called, standing and grinning. “And here I thought you hadn’t changed.”

“Very funny,” Enjolras groused, tossing his cup in the garbage. “Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good of the cause.”

Grantaire chuckled slightly. “Words I thought I’d never hear you say.” He paused for just a moment, then said quietly, “I assume you saw the article. What did you think of it?”

Enjolras looked at him closely, a smile curving his lips. “Honestly?” he asked, running a hand through his hair. “I thought it was the most sentimental, overwrought bullshit I’ve ever read. Because you _don’t_ believe in Les Amis. You never have. And after last night I believe that now more than ever.”

Grantaire’s grin widened. “Of course I don’t believe in Les Amis. Or believe in changing the world. Or any of that.” Enjolras snorted and started to turn away, but Grantaire added, softly, “But I do believe in you.”

Enjolras froze in his tracks and turned back to Grantaire, strange expression on his face. “Even after all this time?” he asked, slightly skeptical. “Even after everything?”

“Here I thought I was supposed to be the cynic,” Grantaire said, smiling. “But yes. Even after all this time. Just as I probably always will.”

Enjolras took a tentative step towards him, a reached out hesitantly to cup his cheek, running his thumb across his cheekbone as his eyes searched Grantaire’s. “I believe that,” he whispered, smiling slightly as well. “Just like I’ve always believed in you, too.”

Grantaire closed his eyes for a brief moment and leaned into Enjolras’s touch. “You have no idea how wonderful that is to hear,” he murmured.

“Yeah, but what are you going to do now?” Enjolras asked, troubled. “Surely you can’t write anything using the ‘R’ pseudonym anymore?”

“Mmm, haven’t you heard?” Grantaire asked, grinning at him. “I have connections with a popular Senator who might let me work on his communications team.”

“Oh, really?” Enjolras asked, laughing. “Well, we’ll have to see about that.”

“Oh will we?” Grantaire laughed, leaning in to kiss Enjolras, who kissed him back, putting his arms around him and drawing him in close.

“Yeah. I think we will.”


End file.
